One of Nothing Revision
by Whyntir
Summary: The Rebel Nationalist Movement has quickly grown and gained momentum against the Western Empire; having been trapped in the East Germanian ghettos, they had been of little threat until the last two years. The anti-terrorist force, Blutrache, is sent in as shadows gather in the dark corners of the government's past. Alternate history/universe, Human AU
1. Chapter 1

_Heat._

 _"Oh shit!"_

 _"You … go…"_

 _"Come on…"_

 _Fever._

 _"Don't -!"_

 _"Will he-...?"_

 _"... Surgery…"_

 _Pain._

 _A shadow looming over him, faceless,_ _the two stared at each other. He could make out messy hair, a feminine dip at the waist and hips, but the face was lost to him. He kept trying, but ..._

 _"Gilbert?"_

"Who-...?"

* * *

Elegant fingers danced across the cold ivory, the feet of two partners as they waltzed to the somber tune. As the heavier notes hit, they seemed to dig in deeper, pulling the musician along, sinking him deeper in the music. It echoed around the white room, just him, the piano, and the sound that reverberated the walls within him. Simple, innocent, then old and weary. He felt himself age through the notes, become heavy and, with a faint breath, welcomed the end.

"It would be a pity to continue it. I think it should have just been left there."

Violet eyes, framed by narrow square glasses cracked open at the interruption, glancing over his shoulder as the wearer pushed them up higher, pressing the corner of the frames by his fingertips. "That is why you are not much of a musician, Gilbert." The albino man stood against the far wall, clothed in all black, it made him look even more pale, but then again, if not for his attire he may have blended into the room entirely.

Burgundy eyes closed nonchalantly as narrow shoulders crowded his neck with indifference, "You called for me?"

"That I did, you certainly do take your sweet time in getting here," the brunette muttered, standing from the stool, plucking a small envelope from the empty sheet stand, facing his visitor who had by now disengaged from the surroundings and stepped forward to receive it. "A new client, endorsed by Antonio. Said they're having a bit of a problem with leaky pipes and requested our help."

Gilbert glanced over the pictures in his hand; grainy and poorly rendered as they were, he studied them, "Did they leave a calling card?"

"No, they wanted to see how well we do our job before we get too intimate," Roderich frowned, not at all pleased with the situation as he folded his arms over the front of his dress shirt, "But Antonio assured me that they were not someone to sneeze at."

"I see. And this is the only target?"

"That's all the information we have been given as of yet, so yes," the same frown marred the older man's features for a moment, but if he had blinked, the Austrian would have missed it.

"Understood," Gilbert chirped, pocketing the parcel and pulling out a loose cigarette in the process. "Consider it done."

* * *

Breathe in.

There was mildew clinging to the walls of the buildings, perforating from the inside out. Rails and beams supported every structure from the outside, prolonging the inevitable for the sake of their inhabitants. Sewage wafted up from below, from neglected and filthy gutters, marrying well the flavour of decay that came from every breath of the people below as they trudged through a dark haze. Some tried to hide their smell, all too obvious of it as they stiffly attempted appear what they thought to be normal. Their old clothes faded, but pressed, sewn and repaired as they walked with their eyes ahead, blindly searching for a light through the blackness. Then there were those who acknowledged it, hunched over, their backs founded from a perpetual embarrassment as faces contorted into scowls. Bitterness flowed through them like blood as they recognized their situation.

And then there was one.

A small coffee and tea shop had been crammed into the first floor lobby of a condemned apartment complex, folding chairs and tables overflowing out into the front courtyard and nearly to the main sidewalk as pedestrians crisscrossed back and forth in a series of lines like ants. There, sitting near the front window that was crowded with ads in several languages was a man. His clothes were bright, his skin dark, hair pulled back in thick braids before they were wrapped in a ponytail and maintained with a narrow headband. Even a couple dozen yards below, he stood out as different. He could smell different. The coffee he drank was of a decent quality for the area, and he had reduced the rancid stink that clung to everything in this hell hole. There were very few ways one could manage that, and none were possible without being some kind of rat.

Pulling back from the scope, he glanced to the picture clipped to the side of the rifle. The rendering was horrendous, to the point that the individual was little more than a dark smudge filling the frame. Gilbert had assumed it was done on purpose, edited to the point of virtually unusable while feigning ignorance. A short tail of smoke danced from the tip of the cigarette he held limply between pale lips, disappearing past the brim of the black hood pulled low over his head. Written on the back was one sentence, undoubtedly Roderich's, claiming the target had an affiliation with cigars. Cigars in East were not easy to come by and often expensive, but here the guy was, smoking with a cup of good coffee in public. Some would say it was almost mocking, or maybe even challenging, but to Gilbert, it looked very different. This man had chosen to indulge himself in a very public area with a near constant traffic flooding around him, and not too far from the wall. One could even say the same neighbourhood. It screamed cowardice and guilt, and even without a decent picture he was absolutely certain he had found the man.

Taking the cigarette, he snuffed out the smoldering embers on the photograph, the heat causing the image to bubble and warp for a second before it fizzled away. Ripping off the filter that had his DNA, the albino pocketed the butt and discarded the picture over the edge, getting comfortable behind the stock of the rifle. A second glance noted the unshaven stubble, the fidgeting fingers and awkward rubbing to the back of his head. Definitely guilt.

"A little late for remorse pal, don't you think?" he breathed, a wholly rhetorical question as his finger steadily squeezed. Suddenly, the target leaned back out of the crosshairs, causing Gilbert to flinch.

The sound of the shot was muffled by a silencer and he immediately pulled the scope off and shoved the rifle into the case laying open by his left side. The sooner he vanished the better. Slinging the rifle over his back, he ran to the edge of the roof, planting one boot firmly on the raised ledge before leaping off, free falling to the alley below. As he landed, his joints caved, bending in on themselves to absorb the impact before rolling to release the energy that the landing stored in his frame to keep from inadvertently hurting himself. If he couldn't feel a broken ankle, Roderich would end up scolding him again. The thought was enough to crack a smile as he ran in the opposite direction from the sounds of panic behind him.

* * *

"Is that so? I see. I see. I understand, we appreciate the call."

"Good news, friend?" a child-like voice spoke up as the brunette hung up the small mobile device.

Green eyes glanced up, more out of habit than for a real reason, before looking back down to the reports in his hand. "It was a follow up, confirmed hit on Carlos, a near miss from what the Gopher said, but a success nonetheless."

A small giggle, "You sound disappointed."

"Unimpressed. I suppose I didn't expect someone under Edelstein's reputation to rely on luck."

A hand came down on his head unexpectedly, the brunette looking up to the looming shadow casting over him. "Luck or Skill. It is fine either way. Assign the next target and we will reassess our possible future with Edelstein and his bugs."

"Yes, General."


	2. Chapter 2

The sun dipped down toward the horizon, the sky illuminated in an orange glow and casting long shadows from the west, the street lamps overhead flickering on in the dying light. For the bad reputation given to the East, and while it held true for many sectors, it was far from a mass ghetto it was believed to be. Neighbourhoods nearer to the wall that split the empire in half fared much worse than those farther out, the Nazi border patrols little more than a gang of hooligans and harassers. The wall split half of Poland and Slovakia, skirting past Hungary and carving out a portion of Romania. From there to the Urals stretched East Germania; little more than numerous city-states that were both largely ignored and tyrannically oppressed, home of those deemed asocial and undesirable by the Nazi high command.

The sidewalk was all but deserted, the stern-faced brunette taking an evening stroll before curfew. He virtually owned this city, his money having rebuilt the bomb-ridden remains following the war, repaving roads and sidewalks, placing in the street lamps; his German citizenship protecting the people, most of whom were political enemies of the state. Turning off the main street towards a small white house, it blended in with the rest; a little flower garden lining the path to the door. Save for the small sign in the front window of a purple palm with an eye surrounded by astrological symbols, it was a perfectly regular home.

Halfway up the pavement, the door opened. "You're troubled, yet you're still so slow. I've been waiting for you all day," the pretty blonde huffed, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the door frame, dressed in a plain white blouse and green skirt that reached her ankles, she looked more mature than her childish pout let on.

"That's what happens when you become an adult, Laura." Roderich stepped past her, removing his coat only to have the girl take it and hang it beside the door. "If you have been waiting all day, then you already know what I'm going to ask."

"I do, but I thought it'd be best to sit before discussing business. I also just made tea, so make yourself comfy, okay?" the blonde smiled, leading him partway to the sitting room before going off to the next room, Roderich hearing the shrill whistle of the kettle.

He had known Laura less than three years when she had been rescued by one of his mercenaries, nothing more than a scrawny child with a hefty reputation behind her; the Oracle. Her home was plain, decorated with fresh flowers and elementary paintings she had done herself, none of the symbols and icons of most fortune tellers, not even a crystal ball just for show. The chairs were simple, red floral patterns adorning the cushions, set before a plain wooden coffee table on a coarse red and white rug to protect the wood floor. The blonde returned, placing a cup on his side of the table on a saucer with a slice of cake.

"I thought you had just made tea."

"I also said I have been waiting on you all day," she sassed, plopping into her own seat in a less than dignified manner, "You want to know about this new client, don't ya?" She sipped her tea, not really waiting for a reply. "There is nothing to worry about, this is fate's design."

Roderich frowned, amethyst eyes narrowing at the answer, "That's all you have to say?"

"Essentially. I baked the cake knowing you wouldn't like the answer, but you should be more trusting of those around you."

"If I lived my life in such a reckless manner, I would have been dead long ago," he countered.

The Belgian sighed, setting her cup down and leaning forward, deep emerald irises boring into him with such an intense gaze it was unnerving. "I am your business adviser, so I need you to trust me; and I am telling you to trust Antonio. The two of you are very similar, this distrust is as though you're jumping at your reflection. This is merely the start of something. Something big; even bigger than your little assassin business."

Their eyes remained locked, him trapped in the unending stare until she finally blinked, ending whatever spell she had placed over him, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. "Did you have to do that?"

"You wouldn't have listened if I didn't," the girl chirped, not at all remorseful, "Now eat your cake, you can't stay here all night."

"I pay your rent."

"And I baked you cake. Chop chop."

* * *

"Dammit," the man hissed, running a hand through golden strands.

"Something wrong boss?" the strawberry blonde chirped from across the room, looking not at all concerned by the venom in the former's voice.

"We appear to have lost contact with Carlos in the East," a third voice interjected, "He never made contact at the allotted time."

"Ehh? You wouldn't suppose he'd make a run for it. He wouldn't be that stupid."

The blonde leaned back, looking out the window of the dim room as he did so, the blanket of night having fallen over the empire, the west lit in the twinkle of lamps until it suddenly vanished into a void of darkness as he gazed over the wall, grinding his teeth in frustration. "He either attempted a run or he was sniffed out and we've underestimated this General Winter. As of now it is best to assume he was exposed and we need to focus on the safety of our remaining two rats. Even if they can no longer exist within the organization, they can at least tell us everything they know."

"Indeed. There was reports of a shooting earlier this week that were then censored by the local government in the area. The vague description of the victim could have possibly matched that of Carlos Machado but unless we perform our own investigation, there is no way to be sure."

"And by now the evidence would have been eliminated by sympathetic groups and the body would most certainly have been cremated."

"Aw man, are you serious, don't the police over there even know the basics of handling a crime scene?"

"Not if it doesn't benefit them, Mikkel. It is a cesspool of corruption and anarchy since being separated from the heart of the empire." The blonde stood, standing before the window with hands clasped behind his back. "Abel."

The third voice of the room, a sandy blonde with a scar over his right brow, exhaled deeply, "We will soon have our answer if this was a random unfortunate event or if our foothold within the rebel organization has been dislodged, but we can also use this as a means of testing the General's range."

"Is it worth it?" Mikkel intoned, lounging across the plush sofa across the room, propping his cheek on one hand as the other swatted the air flippantly, "If we remove Boyan and he wasn't already found out, we blow his cover completely."

"H'll p'nick."

"I agree," Abel spoke directly, his eyes never leaving the blonde at the window, "No doubt Boyan will expose himself. Best to use him for what we can. If we give him the illusion of protection he'll most likely give up everything he knows and at the same time we can test the RNM."

"Then get it done."

* * *

Pulsating lights of blues and reds shrouded the room in a hazy indigo as it mingled with the smoke that hovered in the stale air like a fog. The smell of tobacco and vinegar and sweat mixed with the psychedelic flashing of lights and the deep thumping music that reverberated through his bones, it was as though his entire body was being assaulted and yet this was what he considered relaxing. Such activities were officially nonexistent in the East, yet here they were in the middle of the night in an old war bunker converted into a skeevy nightclub. Alcoholic bottles lined the back wall behind the bar and make-shift booths were constructed of mismatched sofas and tables.

It wasn't so much the drugs that calmed him, though he could feel a secondary effect from them as he inhaled the fumes, or even the music or lights, but just the way it all blended together. Taking another swig of beer from his glass, he briefly wondered why. He had grown up in a quiet home, orderly and clean that smelt of washed linens and edelweiss, and the only music he had even known was the gentle tune of strings and woodwind; a far cry from this dim pit of debauchery. Vibrations against his hip pulled him back.

 _Fa_ _ **ul**_ _ty_ _ **rec**_ _o_ _ **r**_ _ds_ _ **ha**_ _ve c_ _ **a**_ _u_ _ **s**_ _ed a_ _ **d**_ _el_ _ **a**_ _y in proje_ _ **ct**_ _s, c_ _ **u**_ _rr_ _ **e**_ _n_ _ **t**_ _ly_ _ **in**_ _v_ _ **est**_ _ig_ _ **atin**_ _g the_ _ **mat**_ _ter, all a_ _ **s**_ _signme_ _ **n**_ _t_ _ **s** __are_ _ **p**_ _os_ _ **t**_ _pon_ _ **e**_ _d._

* * *

 _Earlier_

Stepping into the office space leading towards his personal room, tired from the journey and irritated at how pointless it had been, Roderich was ready to unwind. The angry brunet with the wayward curl standing in front of him, arms crossed and red-faced, was the only obstacle between him and his dear piano.

"Is there something the matter Lovino?"

Just as he finished, the phone in the office to their right trilled, the visible vein in the Italian's forehead throbbing anew, "Where the hell have you been!? That bastard has been calling nonstop!"

"Of course he has," Roderich sighed, "I got it. You can go to your room Lovino."

"Damn right I can! I was technically off work an hour ago and here I am still answering your damn phones!" Lovino growled savagely, though he looked more calm than he had just seconds prior, grabbing his jacket and disappearing up the stairs to the upper rooms that Roderich had been looking forward to climbing, angry swears in mixed German and Italian floating down until he was simply too far away to be heard.

With an inward groan, Roderich honestly contemplated just unplugging the thing until tomorrow, still uncomfortable with the arrangement, but knowing the person involved, he'd simply call all night. As the phone shrieked for attention for the umpteenth time, he snatched the cursed thing off the holder.

 _"Lovino~! I knew if I called enough you'd eventu-."_

"Again, I ask you to refrain from sexually harassing my secretary. It's bad enough that all he does when he isn't working is complain, I don't need an angry Italian added to my list of headaches."

 _"Oh, it's you."_

An awkward silence fell over the two as Roderich clenched and relaxed his jaw, "I was the one you were trying to call in the first place, so either get to the point or I'm blacklisting your calls."

 _"Oh, right. I got the information on the other target. No picture this time unfortunately. I hope Gil can still pull it off."_

"He can, he's my best for a reason."

 _"Yeah. By the way, you didn't go to see Laura, did you?"_

"And what if I did, Antonio?" the Austrian quipped, folding his free hand under his elbow that held the phone, leaning against the desk, "You know I don't do my business like this, I like knowing who my clients are; none of this middleman rubbish."

 _"I told you to trust me on this,"_ the Spaniard practically whined through the phone, _"These people are really important clients for me too. And I've known them for quite a long while, just like you. You need to trust me."_

Trust. How he hated that word. "Just send me the details."

* * *

There were no such thing as friends among criminals, yet despite how much Roderich denied allowing others in, he had his own strong network built on mutual trust. Gilbert was one of those rare few creatures that the Austrian would ever call friend. And while he knew neither of them would admit it, _they_ were quite close as well. Perhaps it wasn't a typical friendship, originally built on convenience than mutual interests, but the fact that it had spanned over two decades was testament to how little that really mattered.

The contacts irritated his eyes, making them sting behind the sunglasses. White hair tinted yellow, he despised having to go to the West side. Everything was so rigid, orderly, he felt like a sore thumb even when he was very much aware that no one here had any care to pay him mind. They all lived in bubbles, oblivious, while in the East they would have eyed anyone for just the way they walked or how close they stood to others.

He watched them from the modest window of a surprisingly modest building. They all looked like ants, drones on a mission to work to survive, only to die serving a system that never benefited them in the first place.

"How's your sister," Gilbert spoke, hearing the barely audible click of a door closing behind him.

"That is none of your business," a small blonde barked, arms crossing his chest indignantly.

Gilbert turned, pulling off the shades to greet the other properly with a smirk. Vash Zwingli had once been the sole western operative in Roderich's business when he had first started, but the blonde had built his own empire.

"... She's well."


	3. Chapter 3

_His eyes were large, lips trembling as all colour drained from his face, the pistol clattering to the floor, empty. "You're the one, the ghost!"_

 _"Oh, is that what they're calling me now?" he asked nonchalantly, frowning at his jacket as the fabric became damp with dark fluids around the hole, more annoyed than anything else._

 _"You…. you really are a monster…"_

 _"Well isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"_

* * *

 _Earlier_

Vash sat behind his desk, retrieving the folder from virtually thin air as he quickly locked the hidden drawer. "I reviewed the case before you arrived. The target's name is Boyan Vodenicharov, a Bulgarian. My sources were able to track his movements from passing the wall to where he is now in Dijon."

A low whistle escaped Gilbert's lips as he leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, "He made it all the way to France? Bulgarian or not, there is no way he'd be able to make it that far on his own."

"Indeed. According to my source, he's also living quite the relaxing life in a particularly upscale area reserved mainly for German elites."

Gilbert didn't respond for a while, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling as he thought, Vash little more than background noise as he mulled things over. "They don't have a use for him anymore, he's simply bait."

"I was just about to say," the blonde frowned, eyeing the assassin disapprovingly, "chances are someone is watching him. And the odds are it is this individual." Opening the folder, two profiles lined each face of the file, the primary target to the right, a round-faced blonde smiled back on the left.

"Tino Väinämöinen. He looks like a high school student."

"Keep reading."

Gilbert took the folder in his hands, flipping the pages for the Finnish man, reading over his known information, a pale brow quirking upwards in interest. "And we're certain this is the bodyguard?"

"Fairly," Vash admitted, interlocking his fingers on the top of his desk as he did so. "We've only seen them interact once according to the source, right when Boyan entered Dijon. Due to Väinämöinen's particular set of skills, it wouldn't be surprising for him to not require constant contact with his ward.

The albino groaned, closing the folder against the tabletop, "That makes this harder. I need to find this sniper before I can do anything with Boyan."

"Excuse me if I haven't dedicated any of my personnel to the task."

Gilbert sighed, making to reach for his pack of cigarettes before remembering that he left them behind. The damned Nazis and their anti-tobacco laws. Instead he settled for running a hand through his dyed hair and balancing on the back two legs of his chair. "I wouldn't expect that of you. Though I do have to ask how much information Roderich has received on this case."

"I would assume all of it. I got these files from one of Carriedo's middlemen in the area, but Edelstein was the one who set up the rendezvous."

"Good," he dropped the chair rather harshly, earning a glare from the blonde as he stood, "So now we know who we're working for, in the broad sense, Who'd have thought the RNM would need our help?"

Vash sniffed, taking the folder and shoving them in a drawer where the whirl of a shredder could be heard. "Don't let it get to your head. You're hardly at their superstar status."

* * *

She didn't know when he managed to slip away. He stood out no matter where he was, the long sleeves in the late spring weather and his use of hats and hoods were really enough to trigger her suspicions, but still he had a habit of disappearing into crowds. Probably meeting an informant, but it was cause enough for her to have just gone ahead.

 _'If he is up-to-date on Vodenicharov, he'll have to come here.'_

Her fake Visa was going to run out soon, another two days at this rate, three already having gone by since she crossed out of Poland. France was a whole day's journey in itself, which constrained things further. Maybe she should have risked the tracking beacon when she had the chance, but the last thing they wanted was to make enemies where they could foster alliances. That is what Ivan said anyway.

She sat at the cafe sipping at the tiny cup of espresso as she pretended to read the newspaper as she discreetly watched the exits of the train station behind the large, dark sunglasses. He had probably sensed her or something, wouldn't have been the first time, she knew she wasn't the most inconspicuous, but she was easy to omit.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, love."

She jolted, the paper crumpling in her grasp as she whipped around, having not even heard the man approach, let alone see him arrive. She had never seen his face before, always having had _something_ blocking out the sun; even now he wore a wide-brimmed fedora shadowing blue eyes that looked just a little too even in colour. He was young, a lazy grin on his face as he sat across from her, a summer blazer laying across his legs.

"How-?"

Her brain short circuited. It was just this dull buzz of white noise as all the questions just collapsed.

"The alley. I saw you, for just a second, but you are very … _memorable_."

She scowled, folding the newspaper. "Pervert."

"I'm a man," he shrugged, the smile never falling as he looked towards the train station. "Nice location. Ah, but that's the Visa terminal isn't it? I would have done the same if I were you, so don't feel bad. So since we are now acquainted, what should I call you?"

He was lean, a bit on the skinny side. He motioned for the server, ordering his own drink. Left-handed. Most of all he was painfully pale. He had jumped from the roof of a five story building unscathed. The only logical conclusion was that this man was not human.

"Sophia," the blonde woman tucked her short hair behind her ear, "And what do I call you, Raven?"

"Johanne is fine," he smiled broadly.

 _'Obviously a fake name. Guess you aren't easy to fool.'_

"So why would you contact me directly? You know our jobs are done best when at a healthy distance."

The man held a finger at her and the server appeared a moment later. She had forgotten how public this place was. Looking around, no one seemed to pay any attention to them. If anything, they were actively ignored. The server left again, vanished basically, leaving a matching cup of espresso. "Your job is to make sure the assignment is complete and my job is to complete this task. That comes down to finding Boyan. You should also know he isn't alone."

"Yes, he's always guarded by the _White Death_ , though how he can have such range is mystifying," she conceded, appreciating that he had been given decent information. Maybe the leader of the _Hollow Oak_ wasn't as hollow-headed as she had previously feared.

Johanne nodded, dipping a sugar cube into the drink and watching the brown liquid soak into the granules, "Precisely. Now, the fact remains you want Boyan, but his friend isn't going to let that happen. I can't be in two places at once and the last thing I need is getting caught because of a delay."

"Are you backing out to save your own ass?"

He laughed, forgetting about the sugar as it melted between his fingers before letting the sloppy mess plop into the cup. She watched him lick the tip of his finger like a kid as he leaned forward. She hadn't even realized herself move back, her shoulders pressed into the back cushion. "If that was my intention I could have fucked off home. No, I'm saying I need your help. Boyan will be easy to find, he thinks he's in the clear. The Finn, not so much. We know he is always watching though, so from there we can narrow things down. I'll deal with Väinämöinen, you can take out Boyan."

Sophia scoffed, "Your job is to get Boyan."

"It is, but I think you'll agree with me."

"Why is that?"

Johanne's wide grin lessened to something she was more familiar with. Working with killers, she had seen that smile hundreds of times before. "If we can get this done with the least amount of attention and before that pretty little Visa runs out, I think we'd both be benefiting parties."

When had she started smiling?


	4. Chapter 4

It takes a sniper to track a sniper.

That was what many over-glorified war stories made it out to be, veterans ominously giving the warning as they reflected back on the Eastern Front. The romanticized one-on-one, the western showdown, gentleman's duel. Really, it was hardly that complicated. Chances are he was always nearby, especially in a city like Dijon; too many variables to play with. Boyan himself acted tethered, so he didn't trust in the omnipotence of this sniper, confining himself to the same three blocks. Chances were high that he didn't know where Väinämöinen was any more than they did.

"I am _not_ your bait," Sophia huffed, arms crossed under her heavy bust. For being a spy, she sure did attract a lot of attention, but that was probably why she was so good at her job. By attracting too much attention, people made a point to ignore her.

"Bait wasn't what I was going for," Gilbert sighed. They had sixteen hours before Sophia was on the next train back to Poland. "Just break his routine a little."

"You're asking me to get his attention well enough for him to willingly risk leaving his sense of security. That sounds like Bait."

"You're on this mission because he wouldn't recognize you in the case you ran into each other." Her silence affirmed his assumption. "Just a block or two farther, a bar or something, I need to see if Väinämöinen moves. Hunkered down, a sniper is almost impossible to find unless he opens fire so we have to see if he moves."

"And what if he shoots at me? A stranger taking such an interest in a wanted man is suspicious."

"Don't make it your idea."

Her top lip pulled up in something between disgust and amusement as she glared through half-lidded blue eyes, "You men."

"There you go," Gilbert grinned, "we love that shit."

* * *

Boyan wasn't an idiot. A traitor, perhaps. A coward, most definitely. So when the Captain had informed him he would be extracted to France, he knew it wasn't really a means of protection. He knew little, barely anything, about the Rebel high command; most of the information they got was grunt talk, rumours at best and entirely unfounded. However that was information he kept to himself, self reservation was his primary motive, and it seemed to have worked so far. And thus he stood in the middle of a classy German neighbourhood in occupied France with one of the best Finnish snipers as a personal bodyguard, a guardian angel of sorts.

He was bait, not that he particularly cared, so long as he could live comfortably. The General wasn't known for his reach outside of the Ghettos, that was where his influence thrived. And still he never felt safe. How long until the Nazis gave up and told Väinämöinen to shoot him when he least expected it.

"Fucking Carlos," he grumbled to himself, rubbing his knuckles unconsciously. If that idiot had just laid low and followed the plan, this wouldn't have happened, but no. Idiot had to build a fucking conscious and get scared. He messed up and the _eyes_ saw him, probably all of them.

There had been a theory that the General wasn't just one person, but a series of people who blended in with the foot soldiers, but he had never really believed that one. It made him less nervous to think that there was a hierarchy, that the General sat somewhere in the distance and he had some semblance of autonomy in the organization. Rather, he believed that the General comprised of only two people, which made the most sense. Laurinaitis seemed soft-spoken, eloquent and gentle, juxtaposed by the deadly and harshly short-spoken Arlovskaya. The two of them together was a deadly combination that he believed they named General Winter to throw others off their scent.

Unfortunately he had never seen either of them himself, so those were only more rumors. Once they realized how useless his information was, his bodyguard would quickly become his executioner.

So when he caught the eye of that pretty woman browsing the shop windows of the over-priced bakery, he let his gaze linger shamelessly. She scoffed, turning away from him and walking away, but not too quickly. So he followed, because why the hell not?

He was dead anyway.

* * *

It really wasn't his intention to get her killed, it wouldn't look good for their relationship. Especially since this was his plan, she was only involved because of him, so finding the Finn before he wised up to them was top priority. The itching want of nicotine wasn't helping however, and he found himself becoming increasingly impatient.

"Come on you chubby-faced bastard," Gilbert grumbled through his teeth as he whittled down his thumbnail, "Fuckin' _move_."

The evening sun cast long shadows, but still enough light that the streets were fairly busy, from his peripherals he could see children and teens crossing back and forth on the street Sophia and the target had disappeared down; most in their Patriot Youth attire; pretending to be such good little soldiers.

After the assassination of Hitler by his own high command, a few things changed; mostly names. A faint movement in one building absorbed him, his every fibre hanging on the motion. The lights in the apartment were off, despite the sun being low enough to warrant a lamp. No, this was someone who relied on the natural light and the changes in it. Artificial light could bounce off the gun, hit the scope just the wrong way, and give away a position. He had to maneuver the apartment to keep track of his target, chances were he had more than just that floor as well.

"Finally."

* * *

He was tired.

Not particularly of any fault of his own, but merely following the giant silhouette as he slowly moved about the room for what had to be the hundredth time was draining. At the same time he felt restless, the taller man's anxiety casting a shadow over him and making sleep impossible, though he was supposed to be watching the security cameras monitoring Boyan's neighbourhood. The idiot had wandered out of it, but the sniper still maintained a visual, so he didn't see why the fuss.

"Oi."

Berwald ignored him, or most likely just didn't hear. He wasn't the sort to purposely tune someone out. He had settled himself back by the security screens, watching them with a neutral expression, but his eyes moved just a little too quickly to be considered calm.

"Oi."

He kept getting drawn to camera three, but there was nothing in the alley, it was the only other entrance besides the front door, and what idiot would even try that? Of course he couldn't see anything on any of the other cameras either. There were small, basically insignificant blind spots on ground level that vanished the closer anyone got to Boyan's residence, but it wasn't Boyan the Swede would be thinking about.

"Oi!" the blond didn't so much startle as he blankly turned to look at the Dane sprawled across the couch. "I don't think I gotta say much to tell ya you're being too obvious."

Berwald wasn't the most expressive, so perhaps it was only obvious to him, not that Abel would care either. Only the Commander would give a shit; or maybe not. He wasn't stupid, chances were that he knew all their hamartia, but that didn't mean they were _accepted_ , simply that he felt their abilities were more useful despite them. Mikkel sat up, feet still pulled up onto the cushion with no regard for the expensive upholstery, "He'll be fine."

". . . G't a b'd feel'n."

"Do all gays have a sixth sense, or is it more a Swede thing?" The look he received wasn't much different than the stoic gaze from before, but it felt much more threatening, however that didn't stop the other man from cackling. "Come on, lighten up."

"Berwald," the third voice interrupted, drawing both scandinavians toward the door as Abel stepped into the room, predictably uninterested in the conversation, "It's gonna cost ya ninety-seven Deutschmarks if you wanna kill him."

"That is both a weirdly specific and insultingly low price," Mikkel deadpanned, looking more than annoyed at the pricetag his life had earned.

"Every time you open your mouth, it drops."

"Asshole."

The silence didn't last long.

"Where's the boss?"

Abel leaned against the wall, his hand instinctively finding the grip of his pistol in the shoulder holster, more out of habit than any real sense of danger. "He had a blind-date. Someone from the Hemlock Project."

Mikkel made a face at the name, "I thought they were shafted when the treaty was signed." The Dutchman shrugged, not expanding further on the topic, mostly because he wasn't qualified to. He hardly knew more than the other two men in the room, leaving Mikkel to sigh in frustration before turning back to his original target. "Anything new buddy?"

Berwald had switched the cameras to the interior view for them both, monitoring the hallways and elevators. Boyan's apartment had been thoroughly bugged, cameras everywhere, even the bathrooms The nest had been given more space as requested by the White Death, the last camera being just outside the door.

"N'th'ng."


End file.
